


someday we'll all have perfect wings

by thesecondsmile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bullying, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Man Out of Time, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Platonic Relationships, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Precious Peter Parker, Self-Esteem Issues, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondsmile/pseuds/thesecondsmile
Summary: They’re both lost, in their own ways.  One small act of kindness brings them together, and brings them home.-Bucky grapples with being a man out of time and out of place as he tries to survive in a harsh, new world.  Peter struggles with feeling like he belongs.  A chance meeting changes both of their lives for the better.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 58
Kudos: 127





	1. can't find my way home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title taken from 'Don't Laugh at Me' by Peter, Paul and Mary. Chapter title taken from 'Can't Find My Way Home' by Blind Faith.
> 
> Yes, another post-TWS Bucky fic. But this one is a bit different! It's less about mind control and PTSD, more about being out of place in a harsh world that you don't know how to navigate. And, it has Peter! He won't appear for a while, but he will have his own chapter and he is quite an instrumental character in this fic. There will be fluff and comfort, but there is a whole lot of angst to get through first.
> 
> More warnings in endnotes.

He isn’t sure where he is. 

After the helicarriers had fallen, and him along with them, it was as if a fog had fallen over his mind. He must have picked himself up and fled to some safe but unknown place since no one had come to pick him up or take him back to headquarters. He had spent some time waiting — for what, he wasn’t entirely certain. Still, something in him, like muscle memory or perhaps a deeply ingrained instinct had told him that it was protocol to remain there and await further orders, so he did.

That was, he did that until some time had elapsed, and the pressing need to  _ obey _ had faded with it until it was replaced by something he would almost call ‘boredom’. By the time a few days had passed, the orders seemed to almost have ‘expired’ and any compulsions to eliminate targets were gone. 

Even with the deep-seated, almost  _ implanted _ instincts dominating his mind, under their hold, there seemed to be something deeper,  _ older _ than them there, something that told him:  _ the war was over. It was time to go home. _

But he didn’t know what home was.

With his mission terminated? suspended? on hold? he had no more standing orders. With no more standing orders, he didn’t have to do anything. But with no standing orders, he didn’t know what to do either. 

Days must have passed in a haze with him wandering around DC aimlessly in his torn up tac suit and worn out combat boots until something suddenly catches his eye. A bright blue bus with a single figure dressed in white on it, powerful, athletic frame evident even under the thick jersey. A blue cap on his forehead, eyes hard with focus and determination, stance wide and practiced. A single, white ball in his hand. One word emblazoned across his chest.

_ The Dodgers.  _

Instantly, he stops in his tracks, flashes of sounds and images coming to his mind. He lets the other disgruntled pedestrians grumble past him as he tries desperately to catch some of the memories.

_ Sneaking in with Steve at two outs, five innings, roaring with a crowd of thirty thousand at Ebbets Field in 1932. Tossing a ball to Jack O’Donnelly from down the street after school. We’re going to win the World Series. _

Brooklyn.

For the first time that he can remember, without anyone else prompting him, he knows where to go.

  
  


*****

  
  


“You sure you want to go to Brooklyn son? The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in ‘57, you know?” The man is in his mid-to-late fifties with a grizzled beard and tired lines on his face. Nothing about him really screams ‘friendly’, but Bucky has dealt with worse. Besides, grumpy demeanour aside, the man is sitting in front of a run-down stand with a worn out sign labeled ‘INFORMATION’, and information is what he needs. 

“What? Why?” He asks, taken aback. For some reason, he’s appalled. He’s not sure why, but that fact fills him with a great sense of betrayal and disgust. 

The man snorts. “Beats me. Though if I have to bet, I would wager the government had something to do with it,” he says while leaning in with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. 

Bucky listens intently and nods sagely, He makes a mental note:  _ The government made the Dodgers move to California. _

He doesn’t think he likes the government very much.

Shaking his head, he gets back on topic. The absence of the team is a great loss, but the reason he needs to go to Brooklyn is still there. After all, something in him still knows that Brooklyn is home, not for the place, but for the people. In particular, one specific person. He just hopes he can find him there.

“That’s a real shame. Still, I’d like to get to Brooklyn. Could you tell me how to do that?”

The man brings out a large map and traces a route in red marker from Washington to New York. Bucky doesn’t have any money with him, but HYDRA had thoroughly taught him how to get to places with far less, so hitchhiking a few hours shouldn’t be a problem.

He hasn’t interacted much with people in recent years, at least not with words, but he knows enough to end off with a neat ‘thank you’. The man waves him off casually and he turns to start his journey. 

It’s a bit of a long shot, but he can’t very well go around asking people, “Anyone seen a skinny blonde punk, always getting into trouble, about yay high?” Besides, if he didn’t know where to go, Brooklyn seemed like a safe enough bet. At least all the buildings and streets would hold a familiar comfort for him. He fondly remembers a skinny young boy grinning over his shoulder at him, smile not at all dampened by the developing bruise over his left eye.

_ “It’s you and me in Brooklyn, till the end of the line, right?” _

*****

  
  


He ends up in Brooklyn. 

Or so the sign says. 

It doesn’t look anything like the Brooklyn he remembers, with its charming old diners and rustic paint-chipped buildings. Still, Brooklyn is Brooklyn and the only constant that has to remain is a tiny spitfire who never did grow taller than 5 foot 3. 

He’s no stranger to hunger and thirst, but running on fumes for days on end is enough to have him a little light-headed. He’s immensely grateful that he managed to catch a ride with a gruff old stranger in a beat-up truck who similarly wanted few words exchanged, but now that he’s reached his destination, he’s desperately in need of some sustenance.

However, he doesn’t have any money. The feeling of empty pockets isn’t unfamiliar to him, and neither is the gnawing sensation in his stomach, but it’s one of those things that never quite gets better no matter how many times you go through it. Finding Steve and making sure he’s okay and hasn’t gotten himself in too much trouble is still the most important goal, but first, he needs to get something to eat and drink.

He starts walking in a random direction to buy himself some time to come up with a plan. As it stands, he has no clue how to get anything in this strange new world. Somewhere along the way, it starts to rain, and he guzzles down the droplets from the sky gratefully. It’s refreshingly cool on his parched throat, but still isn’t enough to satiate his growing hunger.

Just when he’s about to lose hope, it’s as if providence, along with the newly emerged sun, is shining down upon him. Ahead of him on the dreary, rain-drenched street, he spots some things glinting in the distance. He eagerly runs forward and picks up his lucky find carefully. Counting his loot, he cracks a grin, the motion coming naturally to him even though it feels strange. 

_ One nickel, two dimes… That’s one whole quarter!  _

He’s almost beside himself with joy. Even if prices suddenly jump, that’ll be more than enough to get himself a hot meal, or even just some snacks, to tide him over. Brimming with excitement, he rushes over to the nearest convenience store. The exterior looks different, but the chime of the bell when he pushes the door open and the cool rush of air feels just the same. The phantom brush of Steve’s hand against him along with his bright laughter follows him and for a moment, everything feels right.

  
  


*****

  
  


When he enters the store, he gets a shock. Standing aghast, he tries to take in the rows and rows of brightly coloured bags and packets of assorted snacks gleaming under fluorescent lights. It’s all too much.

Any one of these would have satisfied him, and the sight before him is certainly a cornucopia of everything he had been dreaming of for the past few days. However, the sheer quantity and amount of  _ choice _ present is overwhelming. A twisted wish-fulfilment for a starving man.

The lone sales girl gives him a strained but still polite smile, even though the edges of her lips curl unconsciously. He must be acting strangely and the last thing he wants to do is make her uncomfortable, so he pushes past his unease and hurries over to a random shelf.

His fingers trail the selection of biscuits, almost but not quite daring to land a fleeting touch on any of the glossy, pristine packaging. Lines of numbers and text flood his vision, but next to the rainbow of colours promoting their product, they all become a blur. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat next to him snaps him out of his fugue. It’s the sales girl. Her nose wrinkles as she takes in his unkempt hair, dirty clothes and days-old stubble. He can almost see her eyes narrow as flips her perfumed hair with shiny, manicured nails. He tries to give her a friendly smile.

In a snooty voice, she asks him, “Can I help you,  _ sir _ ?” 

The particular tone in her question does not escape him. He had hoped that she wouldn’t take offense to his presence in the store, but it seems like she doesn’t take kindly to unwashed strangers tracking mud onto the tiled floor. Self-consciously, he scuffs his shoe.

After processing her question, he shyly snags one of the sandwiches that he’s been eyeing. He gives a dismissive sniff in his direction before lazily waving him over to the counter. Meekly, he follows her over wordlessly.

She scans the item with practiced hands and announces in a bored voice, “That’ll be four seventy-nine.”

Mutely, he pushes forward the three grimy coins that he’s been holding tightly in his hand the whole time. 

She shoots him a disgusted look. “You still need to pay three dollars and fifty-four cents.”

His face twists. Three  _ dollars _ and fifty four cents? That’s more than he used to make in a week! What has the world come to?

He’s brought out of his inner turmoil by the sales girl’s impatient interjection. “Sir, do you have the money or not?”

His heart sinks. Ashamed, he shakes his head. She scoffs at him before snatching the sandwich back. “Next time, don’t come in and waste everyone’s time unless you can pay for it,” she mutters under her breath.

He watches with wide eyes. But, his food! He reaches out a hand longingly. “But I haven’t eaten in days…”

“Well, that’s not my problem. Now, do us all a favour and get out of here.” She stomps back to return the sandwich and leaves him standing there trembling. The pain in his stomach hasn’t dissipated but the real sickness is in his chest now.

With a heavy heart, he leaves the store, still holding on to those three coins desperately. He hadn’t managed to get anything to eat, but he knows when he isn’t wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homelessness, hunger, general Bucky sadness 
> 
> I love sad Bucky. I also love sad Peter. Throw in some protective Iron Dad and loving Steve and you have everything I want in a fic! I'm very passionate about problems like homelessness and poverty, so this fic is quite personal for me as well. This is an experience that Bucky has because he doesn't understand how life works in the modern age, but is also something that millions of people go through all the time. I personally have been fortunate enough to not know what it's like to be cold and hungry and scared, but I hope I've managed to bring out how terrible and dehumanising it can really be. 
> 
> There won't be a proper resolution for another few chapters, but the moral of the story will be about how important simple acts of kindness can be, both for yourself and for others. Especially in this time, when so many people are struggling, I urge you to take some time to think about how you can help, in whatever little way you can, and try to make someone's day a little brighter.
> 
> Some disclaimers: I am not American, so I had to google the whole Brooklyn Dodgers fiasco, the price of a sandwich and how much a nickel was. I am not sure what buildings were like in the 1930s, what baseball is like and whether tourist information stands with grumpy old men even exist. Feel free to enlighten me in the comments!
> 
> Updates will hopefully come every Wednesday (with MRC updates coming out on Sunday) so stay tuned for more if this interests you. As always, kudos and comments make me very happy so please do come and say hello if you want to!


	2. blisters on torn feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Bucky sadness. 
> 
> TW in end notes.

He knows he needs food, so he knows he needs money. He knows he needs money, so he knows he needs a job. 

One thing he doesn’t know is _how_ to get a job.

His strategy is hence to gather intel. After all, it seems to have worked just fine so far. So, he walks around the streets and pops into various buildings and shops to enquire if they have any openings. 

He is incredibly unsuccessful.

Most of his questions are met with cold scoffs or outright vitriolic scoldings. They look at him with disdain, eyeing his dusty, grubby attire and scruffy beard. They tell him that his stench is far too obscene for them to even give him the time of day let alone hire him to work in their establishments. The few that don’t immediately chase him out the door quickly shut down the conversation once they catch a glimpse of his metal arm. Their eyes turn steely and they quickly but effectively guide him away and he knows better than to come back again.

He tries to ask but no one has any patience to listen to his stuttering questions. He knows the words but they all sound foreign on his tongue. As if someone had taken everything else out then put them in there.

Everyone is afraid of him, but how can he blame them? They don’t know a fraction of what he’s done, but even they must be able to sense the evil that comes off of him. It’s a stain that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries, and the weight of his sins will just be his cross to bear.

Even those that seem to at least try to look past his exterior and want to give him a chance can’t make enough excuses to hire someone who has virtually none of the skills needed to work even the most menial of jobs. One sympathetic shop owner asks him if he has any experience working with cash registers. He shakes his head mutely. He hadn’t even  _ seen _ a cash register before that day in the 7-11, let alone learnt how to work one. The man gives him a strained smile and gives him a free box of leftover cookies. He eats it eagerly and gratefully.

Even sweeping and mopping floors nowadays somehow requires one to know how to operate all sorts of fancy doors with complicated keypads. He misses the days of simple locks and keys that he could jimmy open with a loose nail when he left his keys in the apartment. 

Everywhere he goes, he is met with pitying or disgusted stares. He has tried several places now, but there is nowhere that accepts him as he is. 

Sighing, he sits down on a nearby bench. There has to be something for him. How did other people manage to survive in this place? How did  _ he  _ manage to survive in this place? 

The memories are still hazy and come in a dizzying swirl of colours and sounds, but he knows that he must have found something that he was suited to to support not only him but sickly Steve as well. He thinks hard for a moment before a single image comes to him.

_ The docks. _

  
  


*****

  
  


Now that he’s successfully identified the location in his memories, he starts to remember the salty smell of the ocean wind drifting in from the harbour, the ache in his muscles as he lifted sack after sack, the hot sun on his back.

It had been hard work, but he relished the simple and repetitive tasks as well as the easy camaraderie with the other dockhands working in the same area. The pay hadn’t been great either, but it was enough to sustain him, and hopefully would be still.

Dazedly, he starts to make his way in the direction of the shipyard where he once made a living. Little by little, he was beginning to piece together a life.

  
  


*****

  
  


It takes several hours, but eventually he starts to scent a faint but familiar tang in the air. His feet ache but for once, there is a clear destination in mind. He sees a sign that proclaims “Port of New York and New Jersey”. He must be in the right place.

He stumbles into the main area and sees an old, friendly man wearing a yellow hard hat come and greet him. This would be the dozenth time asking for a job, but somehow, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Almost as if he were nervous.

Finally, he manages a coherent question and the man hums in contemplation. He gives him a quick once over with a discerning eye and takes in his scraggly appearance and the desperate look in his eye.

“Hmm, I can give you $8 an hour, how’s that?”

Bucky is stunned. “Eight  _ dollars _ ?” Back when he was working in Brooklyn, he would be lucky to come home with a haul of eight quarters after a whole week’s worth of work, if business was good that week.

The man nods and his smile widens. “Yup, and as long as you keep coming in on time and working hard, you have the job. What do you say?”

Words fail him in that moment so he just nods rapidly. Eight dollars would be enough to buy him two whole sandwiches, and that was just in an hour! 

At his enthusiastic agreement, the man brightens. He gives him a solid pat on the shoulder before leaning in slightly and speaking in low tones.

“Look here son, I uh— Is it okay if I pay you off the books? You see, the government would have to take a cut of your salary and it just wouldn’t be good for anyone.”

Bucky stares at him blankly. When he was paid at the docks, he was just given a few coins at the end of the day and no one bothered with any books. The government certainly didn’t have any interest in the few pennies the workers were getting. Maybe this was a future thing? The confusion must show in his face because the man just gives a nervous laugh. 

“You’ll still get your money fair and square, but I’m afraid this is the only way I can afford to give you a job. You okay with that? If not, I just might have to have someone else…” He trails off deliberately, giving Bucky a meaningful look.

If the man hadn’t said anything, Bucky wouldn’t even have known that there was an issue. There had been something in his voice that made Bucky slightly uneasy, a kind of nervousness in his movements and glances. Still, the man had been nothing but kind to him since they met and there’s no reason to think that he’s being cruel now. He’s still uncertain of what’s going on, but he knows that money is money and without it, he won’t be able to afford to eat. Besides, if this was the same government that messed with the Dodgers, no wonder they wanted to take his money too. Mutely, he nods his agreement.

The man brightens. “Great! So I’ll see you here at 7am on Monday, bright and early. You take care of yourself!”

When he leaves the port, it’s with a spring in his step and a newfound sense of purpose. He doesn’t have a place to go to yet or any money in his pocket, but he has a new job starting the next day and that’s a first step.

In the meantime, he finds a decently dry and secluded spot in a nearby alley and gives his aching body a rest after the hours of walking. It isn’t the softest place, but the cardboard gives some cushioning and he feels lighter than ever. He slips off into an exhausted sleep and dreams of stacks of rough, burlap sacks and handfuls of coins.

  
  


*****

  
  


The first few days at his new job go well.

It’s still hard to get words out, but the man —  _ сall me Paul, son  _ — doesn’t seem to mind. He greets him with a kind, wrinkled smile and always finishes with a hearty pat on the back. Compared to the vicious, phantom hits he sometimes feels ghost over his skin, he leans into the well-meaning touches. 

Paul speaks to him in low, friendly tones and lets him work silently in a corner. He crinkles a smile and praises him when he finishes unloading the sacks faster than all of the other workers and then gives him more tasks to do. Paul trusts him with the work and the pride in his voice makes Bucky feel good.

Even the other workers are nice. They don’t say much to him, and some are understandably unnerved by his silence, but they leave him alone for the most part. Other than a few confusing, knowing chuckles from the group when he indicates that Paul is paying him eight dollars an hour off the books, there isn’t much interaction. That’s fine with Bucky. He prefers the silence.

Work is hard, but he leaves each day with a couple of precious dollar bills tucked into his jacket pocket and the knowledge that he’s doing good for himself. He lets himself buy a few filling sandwiches or slices of pizza each day to tide him over, but he finds that the more he eats, the hungrier he gets. It’s as indulging himself with food after being deprived for so long has unleashed an insatiable beast in him that takes and eats and always wants  _ more _ .

His newly emerging greed shames him and he just gets used to the perpetual rumble in his stomach. On days when the emptiness feels particularly gaping, he makes himself fill up on the free water they provide from the water cooler before going back to work. He finds a plastic mineral water bottle and fills it up each day before he leaves so he can enjoy the cool, refreshing drink later at night and tries to push past the twinge of guilt he feels. 

If Paul knows that he’s been sneaking in early to clean himself up in the employee toilet, the man doesn’t say anything. He does quietly offer for Bucky to stay a few hours later when all the other workers have left to clear a few more decks in exchange for some extra pay. Bucky immediately accepts and tries not to let his eyes water at the man’s generosity.

The extra hours leave him tired and in pain but give him three extra notes and some coins. He buys an extra two sandwiches and squirrels the rest away to share with Steve when they finally meet up again. He remembers the sound of violent coughs wracking a thin frame and the feel of skinny, shivering arms wrapping around him for warmth. He doesn’t know how Steve has been taking care of himself all this while, but now that he’s back, he’ll make sure Steve never has to work another day in his life.

It’s a hard, back-breaking existence, but life has always been, and knowing that he’s doing it all for those breath-taking smiles and bright blue eyes makes everything worth it.

  
  


*****

  
  


It takes two weeks for the voices to start coming.

No one else can hear them, but they speak in screams and mutter in languages he’s never heard of but can still understand. They leave him haunted with dark circles around his eyes, tossing and turning at night in an effort to escape them but all that does is leave him bruises on his shoulders. They accuse him of being a monster and order him to do terrible things and leave him so confused and scared and lost. He desperately longs for the silence back.

Then, they start joining him at the docks. Before, the rhythmic motions were enough to banish any noises from his head, but now they make him jump at nothing and constantly look over his shoulder for bullets that are not there. The rest of the guys are starting to notice but he barely hears their whispers over the conversations in his own mind.

He isn’t sure where they came from. A past life, the pit in his stomach, the lightness in his head. They don’t stay as sounds for long.

Soon enough, he starts seeing the long shadows in the alleyway reach out to him even after he’s closed his eyes. The brown, burlap sacks start to take on the shape of grenades and the water he drinks at work turns to blood. Even Paul’s face melds into a square jaw beneath black-framed glasses under a bed of fine, hazel hair and the sight breaks him out into a cold sweat.

Words didn’t come easily but now they flow out from his mouth in harsh, guttural syllables, mutterings that have no meaning but fill him with fear and a strange sort of blankness. That is enough to make even his easy-going coworkers start to leave a distance. He still does his work but the shaking of his hands means that he only unloads half as many sacks as before and Paul’s face, whatever form it takes on, starts to perpetually hold a frown. 

When the man finally pulls him aside with a serious expression, he’s only half surprised. The other half is still trying to contend with the screaming conversation happening with a dismembered corpse in the corner of his eye.

“Listen here, I hate to say this, but you aren’t doing good work anymore. I really wanted to give you a chance, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

He wants to protest, beg for another chance, but his gaze is still focused on the target fifty miles down. Some automatic response prompts him to nod.

Paul gives him a final pat on the back and presses something into his hand. “Sorry son, maybe another time.”

Numbly, he leaves the shipyard with his last bit of pay clutched tightly in his hands. Something trails him.

  
  


*****

  
  


Without any place to go anymore, he spends all his days in the alley. He doesn’t have a job anymore, but he occupies himself by watching the films that play out before his eyes.

The weather is increasingly hostile to him and the cold wind sends chills up his spine. It’s not as cold as Siberia, but neither is he as strong as he was then. Something in him has grown softer, rounder with this peaceful time, and he is all the worse for it. (Still, there is a cold and ice in his bones that never seems to go away.)

Snow or ash starts to come down and it lands on his eyelashes and blankets his world in white. It’s all he can do to drag himself to the nearest convenience store and buy a bottle of water and a few packs of biscuits with the money he has left. He doesn’t touch the bills set aside in his left pocket. Those are for Steve, and if he’s going to die anyway, he might as well leave something useful for his friend.

Scores of people walk past as usual, heads down or conveniently looking straight ahead. They hurry past, talking on their phones and sparing him only a cursory glance. He thinks of Steve’s bright smiles, always aimed his way, and Paul’s affectionate pats. 

He should be used to people treating him as if he were invisible, not human. But he thinks of what the blonde man, who wore a different face but spoke with Steve’s voice, had said to him, “you’re my friend”. Doesn’t that mean that he’s a person? He feels ...hurt.

He had made it to Brooklyn. He had found a job. But now, he’s all out of plans and it looks like he would never find Steve at this rate. He hopes that someone is there to take care of Steve.

He curls up in a ball on his thin cardboard sheet and goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: more homelessness, more food issues, HYDRA trauma and hallucinations. Descriptions of Bucky being exploited by a shady but seemingly kind boss.
> 
> So I know I said that updates would be every Wednesday, but I actually already had this chapter written and I'm halfway done with chapter 3 and 4. Originally I would wait to keep to my self-imposed schedule since otherwise I would have no self-control, but I also have started another fic (which I have strangely written the last two chapters for first...) that I am so incredibly excited to post and if I have to wait 4 more weeks to get started, I might just combust. So, updates on Tuesday and Thursday for next week and this story will be wrapped up by next next Tuesday!
> 
> New story is kind of left field (it is labelled in my folders as 'pregnancy body horror fic' so you kind of get what I mean) and I'm pretty nervous to post it, but I really really like it so far and it's a very personal thing for me so I'm just going to do it anyway. Not my usual style, so I don't mind if no one here wants to read it, but you will still get your regularly scheduled content anyway!
> 
> So, on this chapter: even more sadness and this is really delving into the heart of poverty and helplessness. So many people struggle with all sorts of issues where even if they try, they find themselves being taken advantage of or just not quite going anywhere. The next chapter is full Peter, so I'll just leave you with sad Bucky. 
> 
> Come and chat with me in the comments! I love all of you who read my stories :')


	3. if I can't see the sun (then maybe I should go)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title taken from 'Angels on the Moon' by Thriving Ivory.
> 
> TW: depression, money issues, bullying, suicidal thoughts, peter sadness

“Hey Penis!”

A familiar voice rings through the hallway. He groans silently.  _ God, not again… _

Flash’s cocky face fills his vision and he feels his face start to wrinkle in disdain. Ned instinctively steps closer, a comforting presence by his side.

“Nice bag you’ve got there. I see the Stark internship is paying really well!”

Flash gestures to Peter’s worn rucksack, the fabric faded out and straps clearly having seen better days with a wicked grin on his face. Peter feels his cheeks flush. Being insulted is no new experience, and it’s something he had gotten used to after years of bullying and the same old unoriginal lines.

This time however, the jab strikes a sore spot. He knows that he doesn’t have the newest or most fashionable items, and that many of his possessions are quite clearly hand-me-downs or thrifted from second-hand stores. Still, it’s never quite gotten to him like this before.

“Just leave, Flash! Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?” Ned calls out, hurrying Peter in the other direction. Usually, he would shoot the boy a grateful grin, glad that he had someone to stick up for him. Ned was a good and reliable friend like that. 

This time, the words only bring a cold comfort. 

It’s not even that he’s particularly embarrassed about the bag. Lots of kids carry around old backpacks and no one bats an eye. It’s just something to store all of his books, and with how he carelessly tosses it around, it would probably look a little worse for wear no matter how expensive it was originally. 

It’s the reminder that  _ all  _ his belongings are old. That he can’t afford to buy new things. That he still gets free lunch at the cafeteria and he’s here on a scholarship. That he and May struggle with money because he got every other parental figure in his life killed. 

And that’s something no amount of time spent with Mr Stark, no matter what Flash thinks about the veracity of his internship, can fix.

  
  


*****

  
  


Peter didn’t always feel this way about money. 

Growing up with his parents, they weren’t rolling in cash, but there was certainly enough for Peter to remember having no shortage of new toys or nice dinners. Once they died and Ben had stepped up, they still could live comfortably, and his parents’ absence was the only hole in Peter’s life.

Once Ben had been killed however, it was just May left, and a nurse’s salary wasn’t that much to feed a grown adult and the unexpected addition of a growing boy who needed all sorts of money to go to school and buy supplies. Peter’s scholarship covered some, and he tried to be as frugal as he could be and not waste hard-earned cash on going to the movies or buying new gadgets. After all, he could just build his own out of scavenged parts and he didn’t mind going over to Ned’s house to rebuild the Death Star for the sixth time.

Still, it wasn’t too rare that Peter would wake up in the middle of the night and go to the kitchen for a glass of water only to find a haggard Aunt May, still dressed in her scrubs, having just returned home from work but already fussing with that month’s bills. She never said anything about it, but when she greeted him the next morning, there were more tired lines on her face.

Once he became Spiderman and his metabolism increased fourfold, he found that he couldn’t help but gobble down whatever she put in front of him and the number of snacks he went through grew rapidly. She just laughed and commented on how he was growing like a tree, but he could see her having to budget an extra $15 a week to keep up with his new appetite. 

The guilt in his stomach grew, but that wasn’t enough to keep him full.

  
  


*****

  
  


It might have started with money troubles, but it certainly didn’t end there.

Seeing Aunt May’s struggles to raise him had just revealed to him the limits of his naive, childhood ambitions. It had been clear to him: study hard, get good grades, go to a good college and everyone will be proud of you.

He had studied hard, gotten a scholarship to the prestigious Midtown where he was top of his classes, but even that, combined with his very impressive list of extracurriculars, would only be enough to get him a partial scholarship to the school of his dreams. A letter from Mr Stark to his alma mater would be sure to get Peter into MIT, but once he was there, he would still need to pay for housing, food and other bills. 

Even if he did get a job to tide things over and rely on Aunt May’s help and student loans, he would have to repay them all in the future. It would take him a few more years to get a good enough job to start making a dent in things, after which it would just be bill after bill after bill. It never really stopped.

Even then, if he manage to make enough to give Aunt May a cushy retirement, it would hardly be enough to make up for the trouble and stress he had caused her all while growing up.

After all, that really is the central problem.

He is a burden, and nothing he could do would change that. Putting him through school with the hopes that he would grow up to  _ be  _ something was a pointless endeavour. Sure, people said that he was a bright child, but at his age, Mr Stark had already been starting at MIT. Not to mention, Peter might be good at chemistry, but he didn’t have anywhere near the charisma or confidence that Mr Stark gave off in spades. And so Peter would never amount to anything in life.

All Aunt May is doing now in supporting him is watering a plant that was already dead at the roots, in hopes that somewhere down the line, it might bear her fruit.

He is too much of a coward to tell her otherwise

_ Why don’t you just ask Mr Stark for help?  _ A small voice in his head would sometimes ask. He chokes out a laugh. Sure, Mr Stark is rolling in money, possibly literally even (he rolls his eyes fondly at the billionaire’s antics), but Peter still has his pride.

More importantly, he still has his shame. There are just some things that you have to keep to yourself, and as much as Peter thinks of Mr Stark as his pseudo-father figure, there are some things that you have to keep in the family. No matter how difficult or painful.

If he had a choice, he wouldn’t even force anyone else to deal with his problems, but Aunt May was acutely aware of all of their financial struggles. Ultimately, if anyone had to know his dirty laundry, it would be the person who had seen him in diapers. 

Although this was hardly the life she had signed up for when she married Ben. Peter was just supposed to be the distant nephew she saw once in a while at family barbecues, not a child she would be saddled with for the rest of her life.

If he were braver, or kinder, he would let her go. As it stands, he’s scared and selfish enough to cling to the one person who has no choice but to stick with him, even if it makes him sick.

  
  


*****

  
  


Sometimes, he gets overwhelmed. 

It feels just like it does when he gets overstimulated by lights and sounds. When everything is too loud, too bright, and each sensation feels like it’s clawing at his skin and trying to break into his skull. When the only thing he wants is peace and darkness.

Except this time, it’s entirely quiet in his room but he can still hear the rush of the world screaming at him and it’s just too much. He wishes he could sleep forever, but even then, he’s not sure it would be enough.

  
  


*****

  
  


As a child, he would whine and beg and plead to not have to go for nap time. It was just  _ so boring! _

When he got older, he graduated from nap time, but still had the enforced bed time of 9pm. It was really early, and he would grumble all the way to his room. When the lights went off, he would grab a torchlight and read books under the covers secretly. 

As a teenager, late nights became the norm. Staying up to chat with Ned or finish last minute assignments that left him bleary-eyed and sleepy in the mornings. Even when Ben died, he would cry silently under the cover of darkness. Aunt May would ruffle his hair and tell him to go to bed earlier, but they both knew that he probably wouldn’t. Still, it was just a teenager thing.

Spiderman meant that he was up at all hours of the night, swinging from buildings and stopping petty crimes. It meant that he was exhausted waking up most days, but still filled him with a sense of pride. He was making a difference. The only problem was trying to sneak out of the house without Aunt May knowing.

Now that she knew, they had an agreed upon schedule. He was free to do his policing as long as he didn’t push himself too hard. He had to keep up with his schoolwork, and  _ please _ don’t go out if he didn’t feel good. Guiltily, he had agreed to her terms. The last thing he wanted to do was to stress her out even more, although he knew that he would probably never admit to not feeling good enough to take a break from patrolling.

It turns out, he was wrong. The first time he had felt a weariness in his bones, he told himself it was just a break. Taking a rest for one night wouldn’t be too big of a deal, and besides, didn’t he promise Aunt May that he wouldn’t push himself too hard? He would be back patrolling the next day so without much more thought, he sank onto his bed into a dreamless sleep.

The next time he took a night off, it was with a bigger amount of guilt, but a smaller amount of resistance. Just like last time, it would just be one night.

Except it wasn’t. 

He started going out less and less until the suit lay forgotten in a corner of his room. The few times he had worn it to go out, he felt like his skin was made of lead and swinging through the air was like trying to swim through molasses. He only made it half a night before he gave up and went home to sleep the night away.

He just didn’t have enough energy to continue.

  
  


*****

  
  


And so it went on. His fatigue stretched out into dozing off in classes although he had slept the whole night through. Blowing Ned off because he would rather take a nap than force himself to pretend to like Legos still.

“Sorry man, I just had a long night.”

Even Aunt May was starting to encourage him to go out patrolling more, a clear 180 from her protective stance before. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

There was no more excitement in stopping a robbery, no more pride in reuniting a lost child with their worried parents. Even scraping his arm against a wall had nothing but a dull flash of pain.

The more he slept, the more tired he felt. And everything came crashing down again and again in an endless series of waves. All the worries about money, about the future, about the pointlessness of being alive. Everything weighed down on him and he felt like he was drowning. Everytime he woke up and resurfaced, he just felt the exhaustion of sleep pull him back down. 

He wasn’t going to make a difference in the world. He wasn’t bringing joy to anyone around him. He wasn’t happy and he was so, so tired. 

_ Incoming call: Mr Stark _

He closes his eyes. In another world, he would be jumping at a chance to spend time with his greatest idol. Now, the mere thought of having to pretend to enjoy himself and be normal was unbearable. He lets it stop ringing. 

**_Unread Message_ **

_ Mr Stark: Hey kid, just wanted to ask if you wanted to come down to the lab tomorrow? I have a new project set out for us to do. _

Sighing, he types out a quick response.

_ You: Sorry Mr Stark, lots of homework to do this week. Maybe another time? _

The reply comes quickly.

_ Mr Stark: No problem Underoos. Let me know when you’re free. _

The last sentence almost makes him laugh. Almost.

Instead, his eyes water. He would never be free.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it, the first Peter chapter! He's a little closer to my age and experiences than centurian world-class assassin Bucky but surprisingly a little more difficult to write. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it and we'll see our lovely boys meet next chapter on Thursday :D
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!


	4. in a way, we are all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title taken from 'Don't Laugh at Me' by Peter, Paul and Mary which is an incredible song that captures the need for empathy in the world and has some beautiful lyrics about the universal humanity of everyone.

“Hey Parker, off to the Stark internship?”

The same dreaded voice that makes his school life hell rings out.  _ Please, not today.  _ Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he quickens his pace.

“Just going home Flash.” 

He doesn’t need to turn his head to know that the bully is still following him. The streets are busy this time of day, but none of the other people on the road pay them any mind. 

Why would they? This is just a petty teenage squabble that most have to deal with, and they’re just supposed to grow out of it. No matter how hurtful or draining it gets. At least in school, he has Ned. Now, no one bats an eye despite the pleading looks he can’t help but aim at them. Just this once, he wishes someone would. He wishes he weren’t just invisible.

“Back to that trashy little apartment you call home? How’s it like living with rats?”

Flash’s lines are boring and repetitive. But they are effective and Peter can’t help but let them get under his skin. He feels his face burn and against his best efforts, his eyes sting with the frustration of tears. He’s so exhausted that all he wants to do is go home and sleep the rest of the day away. Still, his little shadow is going to make this a long walk home. 

In a last ditch effort to have a quiet journey, he takes a detour that will bring him through Brooklyn instead. It’s a longer walk, but if it means that Flash will leave him be, the extra strain would be worth it. The way he drags his feet makes every journey seem endless anyway. Unfortunately, it seems that Flash doesn’t have anything else to do today, judging by the continuous stream of comments.

He grits his teeth and keeps walking. Nothing he does will get Flash to stop, so he just needs to bear it until the bully grows tired. God knows he’s tried over the years. 

It isn’t until Flash gives him a hard shove that things escalate.

  
  


*****

  
  


Bucky is tired. 

He isn’t sure what time of day it is because the alley is constantly dominated by shadows no matter where the sun is in the sky. He doesn’t often rise to consciousness, but whenever he does, it’s only to eat, do his business or be tormented by more visions, dreams or memories.

This time, it starts with voices. 

“Too good to get  _ Mr Stark’s  _ butler to drive you home in his limo?”

A boy’s jeer, cruel and taunting. Bucky’s heard enough of that tone in the mocking laughter of his handlers while they beat him or watched. He knows a bad person when he hears one.

“Leave me alone, Flash.”

The next is a worn out, but firm voice. The speaker is unfamiliar but the words and the strong spirit beneath it ring in Bucky’s head. 

Instantly, he’s transported to another time. A small, blonde boy looking fiercely up at a group of bullies easily twice his size. A raging spitfire even with a split lip.  _ “I don’t like bullies.” _

His Stevie can take care of himself just fine, or so he says. The bruises that perpetually pepper his skin seem to suggest otherwise. Steve insists that those boys will never look at a girl the wrong way again, but Bucky doesn’t think it can count as a victory when he has to help his friend limp home. Still, it’s not like Steve will ever stop doing the right thing, and Bucky will never stop being right there beside him.

The voices near.

He slumps back down onto his cardboard sheet. It wouldn’t do for Steve to see him like this. He’d definitely try to drag him up and bring him home where Mrs Rogers would fuss all over him and try to give him extra food that they don’t have to fatten him up.

Steve-with-brown-hair walks rapidly past him, head down. The other boy hurries to catch up. He’s saying something but Bucky can’t hear it. It’s none of his business anyway. He longs to call out and grab their attention, but he doesn’t think Steve wants a bum like him around.

The second boy is clearly infuriated at being ignored and rushes forward, pulling Not-Steve by his bag strap and giving him a forceful shove. Steve stumbles. Bucky jumps up instantly and sees red.

Red on Not-Steve’s palms as they scrape the ground. Red pooling on the ground, leaking from the garbage bag near the dumpster where two silver bullets lie. Red on his fist when he grabs the boy who hurt Steve and pushes him into a wall, scratching his knuckles. 

He would do more but he knows that Steve doesn’t like it when he gets into trouble.

He rushes over to check on the boy. Brown hair glitches into blonde and brown eyes flicker to blue. “You okay punk?”

_ “I had ‘em on the ropes.” _

  
  


*****

  
  


The man’s eyes are blank.    
  


Still somewhat disoriented by the rapid turn of events, he waves a tentative hand in front of his saviour’s face. 

“Sir? Thank you for helping me. Are you okay?”

The man doesn’t blink. 

Extricating himself from the pile of old newspapers he was pushed into, Peter gingerly gets up and brushes himself off, wincing at the sting on his palms. He tries to catalogue what just happened.

He knows Flash shoved him. It’s a familiar enough sensation to feel rough hands at his back then a quick sense of vertigo followed by a painful impact with the wall or locker. Usually, he’s lucky enough not to hit the ground. 

This time, there is no accompanying teasing or boisterous laughter. Just the matching sound of another body being pushed away. The man in the alleyway is no longer sitting on the pile of cardboard.

Peter had felt bad walking past him. He had spied him from the corner of his eye and while previously, he might have dropped some spare bits of change in front of the man, with Flash and all his troubles on his heels, he had just wanted to go home. He had pushed down the twinge of guilt and just quickly walked past, pretending not to see him. If they didn’t make eye contact, it was as if it wasn’t real.

But now, this man that he had ignored, had helped him. Had intervened where no one else had. Sure, he didn’t seem in the best of minds and was clearly struggling with something, but he had helped. And that meant a lot to Peter.

Sighing, he turns to where Flash is lying on the floor. Reaching a concerned hand out, he moves to pick the bully off the ground.

“Don’t touch me! Just go back to slumming it in the trash with the rest of your kind!” The boy spits viciously, giving Peter another hard shove. If not for his quick reflexes, he might have fallen. Not sparing him a second glance, Flash grabs his expensive backpack and rushes off. 

“Flash! Are you al—” He calls out but the words die in his throat once he realises that the bully is too far away to hear him.

Forlornly, he drops the hand he was reaching out. Granted, Flash isn’t the nicest of people, and it wouldn’t hurt him to be taken down a peg or two, but Peter still doesn’t want to see him hurt. He tamps down the part of him that is secretly gleeful at seeing his tormentor get a taste of his own medicine.

_ Kid, be smart about this. I know you have some brains in your head. Use them. _

_ Parker, do you seriously have no self-preservation instinct?  _

_ Peter honey, just, be more careful okay? You’re going to give your aunt white hair. _

He bites his lip. He  _ knows _ that this man is a complete stranger who has already demonstrated that he can be very dangerous. Judging by his greasy, unkempt hair and the slight stench emanating off from him, he’s been out here for quite a while. Probably battling some mental illness or dealing with some sort of substance abuse problem. The slightly glazed, wild look in his eyes doesn’t help to correct the image that he’s just another crazy homeless person and therefore unpredictable.

Still, there is something almost vulnerable about the way that he sits, curled up on his flimsy cardboard mat. This man, who didn’t know him at all, had come to his rescue. He looked like he had seen better days, and Peter was sure that someone had loved this man before. For someone with an underlying  _ good _ despite everything else, how could it be any other way? 

Either way, this man was deserving of some love.

His eyes soften. This man had helped him when the entire world seemed against him. Maybe he just needed someone to help him out too. Peter didn’t have much, but he could try. 

_ Someone needs to look out for the little guy, right? _

There wasn’t a lot that he could do, but there was someone he knew that could hang the moon. Taking out his phone, he clicks on a familiar number.

“Hey Mr Stark, I think I might be coming round today after all…” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Bucky finally meet! It's not under the best circumstances, but it is just a small encounter that changes everything for the both of them.


	5. make it with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from 'Make It With You' by Bread.

  
  


It is cold and dark when he wakes up.

He sees dark shadows climb up the moonlit wall and remembers that he was sleeping in the alley. 

He realises that he is wrong when he hears a sleep-rough but still gentle voice ask from behind him, “you okay?”

_Ah._ Not-Steve. The boy in the alley — no, _Peter_ , he corrects himself.

The familiar words settle him and he relaxes back into the bed. Wait. _Bed?_ There is no mattress in the alley other than two flimsy pieces of scavenged cardboard, which means that something is wrong. He isn’t still in the alley. _Where then?_

He shifts uncomfortably, turning his head ever so slightly to try and catch a glimpse of the person in bed next to him. In the pearly luminescence of the room, he sees a flash of blond.

The sight almost brings tears to his eyes. _Brooklyn._ The familiar run-down apartment with peeling paint, holes in the wall and temperamental heating, but also with a stupidly loyal tiny punk that made every place feel like home. Nights spent huddling with no space in between to keep the precious warmth between them and days spent laughing while trying to perfect his mother’s old casserole with a discount can of tomatoes. 

Reassured by the knowledge that the person at his vulnerable back is someone he can trust, he snuggles back into the warm body with a contented sigh. The first feel of heat reads like a bolt of ice instead.

Steve was never warm. Steve, with his poor circulation, skinny frame, failing heart and failing lungs and failing _everything_ , was never anything but a shivering frame pressing icy cold feet against his calves hoping to sap some heat from Bucky but also to make him squeal. Steve was small. Steve, with his delicate bone structure flaring out into a pair of fragile shoulders that fit perfectly in his arms, was certainly _not_ big enough to comfortably wrap his matchstick arms around _his_ chest. Steve was _not here._ Steve, with his stupidly big heart and bright eyes and happy grin, was not supposed to be anywhere near Bucky.

Because while Steve was goodness personified, Bucky was a monster who was sure to cut anyone who tried to touch him on his broken edges if he didn’t get to them himself. Bucky brought death everywhere he went and Steve was never supposed to see that. This couldn’t be Steve.

He feels himself working up into a panic until one of those broad hands rests itself on his shoulder. He jumps at the touch and immediately turns himself around to look at the stranger. Bleary blue eyes peer at him in concern through a haze of sleep.

He stares at them, transfixed. He knows those eyes.

“—in Avengers Tower, Buck. Hey, we’re alright. You okay there, pal?”

He slowly fades back into awareness and catches the tail end of a soothing voice. With his returning consciousness, he feels his disjointed memories gradually start to reform into a patchwork that he tries to untangle. He takes one more look into those blue eyes that seem to transcend centuries and suddenly, everything makes sense again.

“...Stevie?”

Steve lets out a tiny, broken laugh and gives him a watery smile. “Yeah Buck, it’s Stevie,” he breathes out in a voice tight with emotion. “It’s your Stevie.”

Bucky can’t help the tears that run down his cheeks at that. It still feels a little unnatural to do it, but he shyly tries to let out a big grin and it feels right. Steve gives him another breathtaking smile, still every bit as enchanting as he was seventy years back in a tiny Brooklyn apartment. Bucky lurches forward and grips him tightly in an embrace that tries to pour out decades of smothered affection. He is met with an equally bone-crushing hug and buries himself in that strong chest which is larger but still holds a heart that beats as true.

“I made it back, Steve. I found us.”

  
  


*****

  
  


He still gets confused when he wakes up sometimes. 

Steve’s face glitches between the decades and along with it, Bucky’s world swims. Still, amidst the dizzying confusion, Steve remains a steady presence in his view that holds an enduring sense of _rightness_ until his vision focuses onto the present. 

He is greeted with a gentle smile and offers one of his own. That never fails to make Steve grin even wider and they make their way to breakfast with their hands entwined. 

Life at the tower is good.

Steve introduces him to the bow-man who teaches him how to make words with his hands so he doesn’t have to choose between solitude and discomfort. The kind doctor shows him breathing techniques to settle his mind and the bird man always has a spare cookie from him. The pretty lady sings sweetly to him in Russian and braids his hair so he can look pretty as well. (Bucky _really_ likes that.)

Still, Steve has and always will be his favourite. Steve is his best friend, who offers him the last fry in the basket and drops off little casual doodles which let Bucky know that he was thinking of him. Who never hesitates to get into a fight, but is the first one to offer help to anyone who looks like they’re in a tough situation. Who is special enough to deserve the world but somehow still decides everyday to spend his life with Bucky. 

He could spend an eternity thinking back on those endlessly happy memories, but is snapped out of his pleasant reminiscing by a patient voice calling his name. 

“—Buck, you with me?”

He blinks once and Steve’s smiling face materialises in front of him. Realising that he’s drifted off again, he gives a sheepish nod. 

Steve just smiles another patient smile and repeats his question. “Any ideas for what you want to do today?”

Bucky pauses and bites his lower lip as he thinks. A sudden memory of sticky fingers and sweetness bursting on his tongue surfaces. Two boys holding their cones and walking leisurely down the street, playfully knocking their shoulders together, sneakily stealing glances when the other isn’t looking. He looks up shyly at Steve’s beaming face.

“Can we get ice cream?”

  
  


*****

_When he walks through the doors, he’s greeted by a blinding series of lights and marble floors. He can’t tell if the flashing lights are coming from overhead or from his own fatigue._

_Fortunately, the small hand on his back grounds him and he slowly stumbles forward until they’re in the centre of what seems to be a giant lobby. The echoing sounds and bright atmosphere are overwhelming, and he wants nothing more than to crouch down with his hands over his ears._

_He can’t help but flinch at every body that brusquely pushes past him in the bustling lobby and he can’t tell if he’s grateful that majority of the people seem to be making an effort to steer clear of him. He supposes they must stick out — a scruffy, homeless-looking vagabond who clearly hasn’t had a shower in a long time and a scrawny kid who is a good ten years younger than the next youngest person in the room. He scuffs his worn out boots on the pristine linoleum and winces at the dark stain it leaves behind._

_Without the calming, steady presence of his rescuer, he wouldn’t be able to stand there and not turn into a nervous wreck. (In fact, he’d probably not be standing at all, just lying dead in a dirty old alleyway somewhere.) He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him, just as he hasn’t for the past few miserable days, but the nervous kid beside him gives him a well of hope._

_An ostentatious ‘ding’ sounds from one of the large elevators and Bucky’s head jerks up at the noise. Next to him, Not-Steve perks up as well._

_In the middle of the hectic hum of the lobby, everyone seems to unconsciously part for the two men that exit from the lift. The first is short in stature with a large pair of sunglasses and frankly confusing array of facial hair that Bucky decides to write off as ‘future fashion’. God knows he’s seen stranger things._

_The second man, however, is who catches his eye. He’s hunched over, trailing unobtrusively behind the first (or trying to at least), though his immense bulk makes that perhaps a futile gesture. Most striking of all is his blond head of hair, the likes of which Bucky has only seen on two other people._

_The pair make a beeline straight for him and his companion, who gives an awkward little wave. Sunglasses-goatee lets out a large, theatrical sigh and stomps the rest of the way over. Big, beefy blond hurried over with the look of a man half-resigned to whatever is about to happen but still lacklusterly trying to do damage control._

_“Peter, what did we say about bringing strays to the Tower? Don’t they teach you Stranger Danger in schools?” Goatee whips off his sunglasses in a move that he probably thinks makes him look cool (the part of Bucky that is not struggling to function is undecided on whether he is successful) and levels an accusing glare at ‘Peter’._

_Peter scratches the back of his head and gestures at him. “But Mr Stark! Look at him! He was just lying in this really sad alley and he really needs help and he helped save me from Flash—”_

_By this point, Beefy has caught up with them. “Tony, you know Peter’s just trying to help—” He says exasperatedly before suddenly cutting himself off, staring at Bucky like he’s just seen a ghost._

_His eyes widen and he breathes out one word reverently. “Bucky,” he whispers, like a prayer. The name jolts him for a reason he can’t quite identify, but the electricity that runs up his spine is strangely not something unpleasant._

_The man reaches out a hand shakily, as if he fears that the minute he comes into contact with the object of his dreams, it would disappear. Bucky knows that feeling all too well. The man steps closer on unsteady feet and strangely, Bucky feels no urge to move back. The opposite in fact; every inch of his skin is yearning to feel the man’s touch, every fragment of his broken mind is screaming that this man is home._

_“Bucky, please, I’ve been looking for you for so long. It’s me, remember? It’s Steve,” he says desperately like a dying man making his last plea. (Bucky knows what that’s like.) Fortunately, it seems that his prayers have been answered, because that name strikes a deep chord in Bucky and resonates with the single goal he’s had in his disordered mind since he came into himself. Steve._

_Mutely, he steps forward with shaking hands, though no part of him feels fear. How could he be scared? When Steve, his protector, his refuge, his safe harbour is finally in his sights. There are many things that leave his confused and frightened, but one fact remains clear always: Steve will never let any harm come to him. If Steve is here, he is safe._

_Looking at that face, a dissonant combination of heartbreak and sorrow and love and joy, Bucky sees his history written in every familiar line. Those eyes hold the secrets to his past and control over his future. It should be scary, one person having so much power over you, but all it feels is right._

_One bruised and grimy hand comes out from his tattered pocket and slowly moves to rest in between them. Calloused fingers unfurl to reveal a collection of coins that Bucky has been saving for days through empty stomachs and cold nights. “I-I got some money, Stevie. It’s ...for you, for your asthma,” he stutters out unsurely, offering the precious money to his dearest person. Steve’s face crumples as he lunges forward to grasp Bucky’s hand tightly in his. He begins to weep in earnest and buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder._

_Bucky clutches on tightly to him and relishes in the sheer relief of finally coming home. Sniffling openly and wiping his tears with his free hand, Steve continues to drink in the sight of his long-lost friend with a devastating amount of love in his gaze. “Come on Buck, let me get you up to my floor and give you a good meal. You’ve taken care of me all these years, let me return the favour now.”_

_As he speaks, he carefully guides his friend towards the lifts, both of them leaning against each other._

  
  


*****

  
  


_Peter watches wistfully as the reunited pair slowly make their way upstairs. Tony stands dumbfounded beside him, mouth opening and closing in an attempt to speak._

_When he finally gets his words working, he sputters in shock for a minute before finally blurting out, “What just happened? Did you seriously just run into Cap’s long-lost boyfriend and bring him to my Tower? How did you even— Just, ...what?”_

_Peter discreetly wipes his tears away and then bursts into laughter. Tony is distinctly unimpressed with Peter’s amusement at his expense. He crosses his arms and waits impatiently for the boy to stop his chuckles._

_“It was just a happy coincidence I guess! I was just walking home from school and Fl—” Peter cuts himself off once he realises what he was going to accidentally admit to. Unfortunately, despite his earlier confusion, Tony is nothing but attentive to Peter’s idiosyncrasies and immediately zeroes in on that near-confession._

_He eyes Peter suspiciously and pins him with a withering stare. Peter starts to sweat. “Yeah, that’s right, you mentioned something about Flash, isn’t that right? Why was he even there, if you were going home? Has he been bothering you again?”_

_Peter tries to laugh it off, waving his hand around dismissively while trying to hide the slightly higher pitch of his voice. “Oh, you know, we were just… doing some friendly group walking! It’s a new thing in school, grab a friend and just stroll around the neighbourhood…”_

_Tony just raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Peter, who deflates and stops babbling. Internally cursing his complete inability to lie, he looks down at his ratty sneakers and tries to fight against the sting of tears in his eyes._

_His efforts prove to be in vain as a gentle hand touches his chin and gently raises it up, forcing Peter to look directly at Tony. The strangely soft and caring look on the billionaire’s face is more than he can take and to his mortification, he feels hot tears rolling down his face. Tony wipes them away tenderly with his thumb before pulling Peter into his chest, shielding him from nosy eyes craning to catch a glimpse of the famed superhero and his supposed intern._

_Tony skilfully guides them into the lift and pushes the button to bring them straight to his lab. Peter continues to look down to hide his tears and Tony lets out a sigh. “Come on Underoos, off to the lab. It’s going to be okay, kid.”_

_Sniffling, Peter gives a grateful nod. His tears haven’t stopped yet, and neither has the heavy weight in his chest subsided, but he does walk out the elevator feeling slightly lighter and with a newfound sense of hope in his chest._

  
  


*****

  
  


“Mr Staaaaark,” he whines, prompting a loud laugh from the billionaire. “You can’t separate Dum-E from his new friend!”

He tries not to pout but can’t help his sulking when he hears Tony chuckle. Still, he’s having a blast working with Mr Stark in his lab, just the two of them tinkering with robots and writing complex lines of code together. There had been a stretch of weeks where he didn’t visit the lab, and it’s strange to think of how he could have stayed away for so long. Standing next to his mentor, laughing freely about all sorts of things, it was hard to imagine feeling so bad that he would reject a chance to do that. At the same time, he remembered, even if he couldn’t exactly recall the exact sensations and thoughts at that time, the feeling of a crushing sense of tiredness and despair. That everything was pointless and nothing made him happy and he barely had the energy to walk. He wasn’t quite sure why he felt that way but he was certain that it wasn’t something he made up, that it was something very real.

He can’t imagine a situation in which the suffocating weight of sadness was just a figment of his own mind. 

Now, however, all the bad does seem just further away, fainter and fuzzier around the edges. It makes it hard to remember how bad he felt just days ago and for that, he is incredibly grateful. 

It was fairly embarrassing, having a breakdown in front of Mr Stark and blubbering all over him after accidentally bringing a brainwashed former assassin to his tower. The billionaire hadn’t done anything but gently pat his back and sit with him until his sobs subsided, but Peter still felt incredibly ashamed that he was wasting the very valuable time of his mentor. He was almost fifteen and still getting all teary over absolutely nothing, and forcing Mr Stark to witness his humiliating display the entire time.

Still, Tony did reassure him that it was perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed sometimes, especially when he was doing so much more and had been through so much more than others his age. Despite his dislike for human contact, Mr Stark had wrapped him up in a tight hug and spoken to Peter about his own troubles growing up as a kid forced into college by his overbearing father, everything happening a little too-early, too-fast for a teenager too-young, whose every effort was somehow still too-little, too-late.

Many would probably be surprised by the idea that the brash, childish and seemingly overtly narcissistic personality would be capable of having so much care and patience for a child, but that was just because many didn’t know Mr Stark, despite what they would like to think. All they could see were the flashy cars, ostentatious antics and snarky comments that the man deliberately revealed to the press to divert their attention from who he really was. 

Having grown up in a distinctly middle class family, it was difficult for Peter to try to imagine being brought up in the spotlight, with your family name and every habit splashed across each tabloid in the country and beyond. Mr Stark didn’t have to worry about money or success, but he certainly had his own struggles to contend with and Peter respected him all for coming out of it a good man who built an empire by himself to make a change in the world. 

Peter’s life had gone through several huge upheavals ever since the spider bite, and that fateful incident had certainly brought many new burdens onto his shoulders, but it had also brought Mr Stark into his life, and that by itself made everything worth it. It was an immense privilege to see this side of the man that so few others were privy to, and Peter cherished each private moment.

And there was the promise of more. Mr Stark had sat him down and wrapped him in a tight hug, fiercely promising Peter that he would be there for him and that it wouldn’t be a burden. In a way, his absence from the lab had helped to put things into perspective. It was a reminder that his struggles were real, because any world where he _didn’t_ want to spend time with Mr Stark was a world where things were very bad indeed. 

It made it easier to accept things like therapy, knowing that there was a real problem to be solved and not just something he made up for attention. It made it easier to talk about his troubles, because he had the reassurance that no one would judge him for his weakness. It made it easier to want to try to get better, when he had a close reminder of what life could look like when he _was_ happy. 

Days spent in the lab slowly started making his life brighter, and while he still had moments when just lifting his head seemed like an impossible battle, he had a place to go to, even if Mr Stark’s multi-million dollar building would just be used to watch episodes of Star Wars on repeat. Even the conversation with Aunt May, while filled with many tears and sorrow, now meant that there was someone there to speak to him sweetly and make sure he took care of himself even in the lowest of periods, all with the knowledge that there were people who wanted to look after him.

For the first time in a long time, he started looking to tomorrow without dread. 

  
  


*****

  
  


This particular moment has Mr Stark smirking cheekily at him, a random wrench being twirled in his hand. Peter had been hard at work in the lab for the past few hours, occupied by their latest joint project. 

It was a bit of an impromptu idea, brought on by Peter’s very recent little episode. Of course, Mr Stark would never explicitly admit it, but to those who knew him, the man was far less subtle than he would like to think. The original plan was to build a friend for Dum-E, who Peter had long been saying was feeling very alone and isolated in the lab.

Tony still gave him some jobs to do, but they were mainly perfunctory in nature, just so the tiny robot felt included and like he had a purpose. Still, there were several limits to Dum-E’s capabilities, having been built by a curious child just beginning to explore the world of robotics a few decades ago, so his functionalities were fairly outdated. (Then again, people in the ‘80s probably didn’t put motor oil in their coffee either. Unless that was what explained the funky outfits.)

Tony regularly threatens to turn him into a coat rack or a charitable contribution to a local elementary school, but everyone knows that he would never get rid of the earnest robot. That left one option: they had to make Dum-E a friend. 

The two had worked furiously to create a new robot who would be able to keep Dum-E in line in case his predecessor decided to sprinkle screws around the floor like confetti ( _again_ ) but not so advanced that he couldn’t relate to Dum-E. (Or you know, became a sentient life form bent on taking over the planet. Not like either of them would do something like that. Cough.)

After a few hours of tinkering, they had finished with their latest invention, a tiny box-like robot made from spare parts and with a shiny metal sheen to him. Feeling their gazes on him, the robot in question tilts his head curiously and makes a few inquisitive gestures. As if sensing a new addition to his home, Dum-E rolls over, approaching cautiously. The older robot gives a tiny wave and lets out a friendly set of beeps, which are met with an excited sequence of noises. Peter laughs delightedly.

“Look Mr Stark! They’re friends now!”

The engineer surveys the scene in front of him with a critical eye. He would usually try to argue that these low-level robots don’t have the capacity to feel emotions, but it’s hard to dispute the connection between the two when they’re now clasping their claws together in a handshake. 

“Yeah, yeah, I see that. Got a name for him? Can’t just call him Dum-E 2.0,” he asks instead. 

Peter brightens. “Sil-E! You know, like Dum-E, but different! So they’re matching,” the kid says, peering at him with happy eyes. Tony can’t help but crack a grin at his enthusiasm.

“Say, you seem awfully fond of _Sil-E_ ,” he notes contemplatively, adding quotation marks around the newly coined name. “Would you want to take him home instead? He can be your pal!”

He thought it was a decent idea: Peter had been down lately and having his own robotic friend to keep him company was sure to lift his mood. However, judging from the horrified expression on Peter’s face, it might not have been as genius as he thought.

“You can’t do that! Sil-E is Dum-E’s friend!” he shouts, aghast. Tony quirks an eyebrow at him.

Peter crosses his arms and stares stubbornly at the engineer. Tony glares back for a minute until he breaks and drops his arms with a loud sigh. “Fine, we’ll keep Sil-E here so the two of them can roll around and destroy my workshop together.” Silently, he makes a mental note to add some new features to Karen so someone is keeping an eye on him if Sil-E is watching Dum-E instead.

Peter cheers loudly and the two robots twirl around happily, letting out an excited series of beeps before joining their little claws together in an approximation of a hug. The three turn to Tony smugly and he throws his hands up in their air exasperatedly. “Getting bullied in my own lab,” he grumbles under his breath. 

The complaint is only met with more laughter, a sound that soothes Tony’s mini tantrum. Looking at Peter’s smiling face, his eyes soften. _This is the way it should be,_ he thinks. _The kid deserves to be happy._

  
  


*****

  
  


The elevator leading to the workshop dings, drawing their attention away from the romping robots. Steve exits first, trailed by a happy-looking Bucky.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Two frozen grandpas walk into a room,” he snipes, a teasing smile on his face. “Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

Steve just rolls his eyes in good humour and Bucky sticks his tongue out behind him. Peter delivers a quick smack to the billionaire’s shoulder and he reacts with a betrayed shout. “Hey, what was that for?”

“Don’t mind him, Peter, he’s always making jokes because someone mistakenly told him he was funny many years ago,” Steve says while smiling good-naturedly at them. Bucky pushes his fist forward and the two do a quick bump in front of a pouting Tony.

“So, other than to bully me in my own building,” he says with a pointed glare around the room, frowning at the complete lack of remorse on all of their faces. “Was there any reason why Pete and I have been graced by your presence today?”

Steve perks up. “Oh right, Buck and I were just going out to get some ice cream from that new place and we were wondering if you wanted to tag along?” 

Peter starts nodding frantically and he and Bucky soon start up a chant of _Mint Chocolate Chip_ in the background,

Like a double date?” Tony says, smirking. Seconds later, once he processes what he has just said, he makes a face. “Okay wait, ew. I take that back. There’s like a hundred year age difference between some of us. Just a group of bros hanging out, that’s right.”

They all laugh at him before turning to the lift. Tony sulks behind them and stomps inside. As the elevator descends, they continue making jokes at his expense. He mutters a threat about not paying for any of their dessert and this time it’s Peter, the little traitor, who pipes up and offers to treat everyone instead. For the first time, Tony curses the very generous salary he pays interns at Stark Industries.

He spends the rest of the trip down pouting at the back, but as the lift doors open on the first floor and the three excitedly skip out, he can’t help the little smile that blooms on his face.

_Yeah, this is a good day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it, the nice fluffy conclusion to this little fic! This song (and 'Don't laugh at me') is really what inspired this fic, because I love Bread (the band and the food) and this song, which is the sweetest, most hopeful song ever, just gave me the image of Peter and Tony laughing in a lab while building robots together or Steve and Bucky walking down the street together, knocking shoulders shyly while eating ice cream. So I had the angsty beginning and the happy epilogue, and just put them together to produce this!
> 
> First time writing Peter and still one of my first times writing in general, so I suppose I'm still green enough to be nervous about every update, but you all have been so supportive that it is an absolute pleasure to write. I still have many works in ...the works (apparently words are not my strong suit) so don't worry, more will be coming, and the next in the line-up is a really different fic set in a mildly A/B/O universe mostly because I wanted to explore how Bucky's existing body issues would interact with a personal fear of mine, pregnancy, since there are many common themes of displaced agency and some body horror elements at least in my view. So, that's a different thing and if it's not your cup of tea, I wholly understand! Murder Raccoon Club will continue to be updated weekly on Sundays (my Sundays, really not sure when that is relative to you :0 but it's the same time zone as Beijing so there you have it) for those of you who want crack-y raccoon goodness. For the rest on board the pregnancy body horror train, weekly updates starting next Wednesday!
> 
> Long spiel short, I hope you enjoyed this short ride with me and let me know if you enjoyed it so I might write more stuff like this. Either way, more to come! :D


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